"I wish you to have the paper stopped, Mr. Collector."
"Oh, no, don't say that, Mr. Ashburn. You are one of our old
subscribers, and we can't think of parting with you."
"Sorry to give up the paper. But must do it," returned the farmer.
"Isn't it as good as ever? You used to say you'd rather give up a
dinner a week than the 'Post.'"
"Oh, yes, it's as good as ever, and sometimes I think much better
than it was. It's a great pleasure to read it. But I must retrench
at every point, and then I don't see how I'm to get along. Wheat's
down to ninety cents, and falling daily."
"But the paper is only two dollars a year, Mr. Ashburn."
"I know. But two dollars are two dollars. However, it's no use to
talk, Mr. Collector; the 'Post' must be stopped. If I have better
luck next year, I will subscribe for it again."
This left the collector nothing to urge, and he withdrew. In his
next letter to the publishers, he ordered the paper to be
discontinued, which was accordingly done.
Of this little act of retrenchment, Jane, Margaret, and Phoebe knew
nothing at the time, and the farmer was rather loathe to tell them.
When the fact did become known, as it must soon, he expected a
buzzing in the hive, and the anticipation of this made him half
repent of what he had done, and almost wish that the collector would
forget to notify the office of his wish to have the paper stopped.
But, the collector was a prompt man. On the second Saturday morning,
Ashburn went to the post-office as usual. The postmaster handed him
a letter, saying, as he did so--
"I can't find any paper for you, to-day. They have made a
mistake in not mailing it this week."
"No," replied Ashburn. "I have stopped it."
"Indeed! The Post is an excellent paper. What other one do you
intend to take?"
"I shall not take any newspaper this year," replied Ashburn.
"Not take a newspaper, Mr. Ashburn!" said the postmaster, with a
look and in a tone of surprise.
"No. I must retrench. I must cut off all superfluous expenses. And I
believe I can do without a newspaper as well as any thing else. It's
a mere luxury; though a very pleasant one, I own, but still
dispensable."
"Not a luxury, but a necessary, I say, and indispensable," returned
the postmaster. "I don't know what I wouldn't rather do without than
a newspaper. What in the world are Phoebe, and Jane, and Margaret
going to do?"
"They will have to do without. There is no help for it."
"If they don't raise a storm about your ears that you will be glad
to allay, even at the cost of half a dozen newspapers, I am
mistaken," said the postmaster, laughing.
Ashburn replied, as he turned to walk away, that he thought he could
face all storms of that kind without flinching.
"Give me the 'Post,' papa," said Margaret, running to the door to
meet her father when she saw him coming.
"I haven't got it," replied Mr. Ashburn, feeling rather
uncomfortable.
"Why? Hasn't it come?"
"No; is hasn't come."
Margaret looked very much disappointed.
"It has never missed before," she said, looking earnestly at her
father.
No suspicion of the truth was in her mind; but, to the eyes of her
father, her countenance was full of suspicion. Still, he had not the
courage to confess what he had done.
"The 'Post' hasn't come!" he heard Margaret say to her sisters, a
few minutes afterwards, and their expressions of disappointment fell
rebukingly upon his ears.
It seemed to Mr. Ashburn that he heard of little else, while in the
house, during the whole day, but the failure of the newspaper. When
night came, even he, as he sat with nothing to do but think about
the low price of wheat for an hour before bedtime, missed his old
friend with the welcome face, that had so often amused, instructed,
and interested him.
On Monday morning the girls were very urgent for their father to
ride over to the post-office and see if the paper hadn't come; but,
of course, the farmer was "too busy" for that. On Tuesday and
Wednesday, the same excuse was made. On Thursday, Margaret asked a
neighbour, who was going by the office, to call and get the
newspaper for them. Towards evening, Mr Markland, the neighbour, was
seen riding down the road, and Margaret and Jane ran down eagerly to
the gate for the newspaper.
"Did you get the paper for us?" asked Margaret, showing two smiling
rows of milk-white teeth, while her eyes danced with anticipated
pleasure.
Mr. Markland shook his head.
"Why?" asked both the girls at once.
"The postmaster says it has been stopped."
"Stopped!" How changed were their faces and tones of voice.
"Yes. He says your father directed it to be stopped."
"That must be a mistake," said Margaret. "He would have told us."
Mr. Markland rode on, and the girls ran back into the house.
"Father, the postmaster says you have stopped the newspaper!"
exclaimed his daughters, breaking in upon Mr. Ashburn's no very
pleasant reflections on the low price of wheat, and the difference
in the return he would receive at ninety cents a bushel to what he
would have realized at the last year's price of a dollar
twenty-five.
"It's true," he replied, trenching himself behind a firm, decided
manner.
"But why did you stop it, father?" inquired the girls.
"Because I can't afford to take it. It's as much, as I shall be able
to do to get you enough to eat and wear this year."
Mr. Ashburn's manner was decided, and his voice had a repelling
tone.
Margaret and Phoebe could say no more; but they did not leave their
father's presence without giving his eyes the benefit of seeing a
free gush of tears. It would be doing injustice to Mr. Ashburn's
state of mind to say that he felt very comfortable, or had done so,
since stopping the "Post," an act for which he had sundry times more
than half repented. But, as it had been done, he could not think of
recalling it.
Very sober were the faces that surrounded the supper-table that
evening; and but few words were spoken. Mr. Ashburn felt oppressed,
and also fretted to think that his daughters should make both
themselves and him unhappy about the trifle of a newspaper, when he
had such serious troubles to bear.
On the next Saturday, as Mr. Ashburn was walking over his farm, he
saw a man sitting on one of his fences, dressed in a jockey-cap, and
wearing a short hunting-coat. He had a rifle over his shoulder, and
carried a powder-flask, shot and bird bags. In fact, he was a fully
equipped sportsman, a somewhat _rara avis_ in those parts.
"What's this lazy fellow doing here?" said Ashburn, to himself. "I
wonder where he comes from?"
"Good morning, neighbour," spoke out the stranger, in a familiar
way, as soon as the farmer came within speaking distance. "Is there
any good game about here? Any wild-turkeys, or pheasants?"
"There are plenty of squirrels," returned Ashburn, a little
sarcastically, "and the woods are full of robbins."
"Squirrels make a first-rate pie. But I needn't tell you that, my
friend. Every farmer knows the taste of squirrels," said the
sportsman with great good-humour. "Still, I want to try my hand at a
wild-turkey. I've come off here into the country to have a crack at
game better worth the shooting than we get in the neighbourhood of
P--."
"You're from P--, then?" said the farmer.
"Yes, I live in P--."
"When did you leave there?"
"Four or five weeks ago."
"Then you don't know what wheat is selling for now?"
"Wheat? No. I think it was ninety-five or a dollar, I don't remember
which, when I left."
"Ninety is all it is selling for here."
"Ninety! I should like to buy some at that."
"I have no doubt you can be accommodated," replied the farmer.
"That is exceedingly low for wheat. If it wasn't for having a week's
sport among your wild-turkeys, and the hope of being able to kill a
deer, I'd stop and buy up a lot of wheat on speculation."
"I'll sell you five hundred bushels at ninety-two," said the farmer,
half-hoping that this green customer might be tempted to buy at this
advance upon the regular rate.
"Will you?" interrogated the stranger.
"Yes."
"I'm half-tempted to take you up. I really believe I--no!--I must
knock over some wild-turkeys first. It won't do to come this far
without bagging rarer game than wheat. I believe I must decline,
friend."
"What would you say to ninety-one?" The farmer had heard a rumour, a
day or two before, of a fall of two or three cents in wheat, and if
he could get off five hundred bushels upon this sportsman, who had
let the breast of his coat fly open far enough to give a glimpse of
a large, thick pocketbook, at ninety-one, it would be quite a
desirable operation.
"Ninety-one--ninety-one," said the stranger, to himself. "That is a
temptation! I can turn a penny on that. But the wild-turkeys; I must
have a crack at a wild-turkey or a deer. I think, friend," he added,
speaking louder, "that I will have some sport in these parts for a
few days first. Then, maybe, I'll buy up a few thousand bushels of
wheat, if the prices haven't gone up."
"I shouldn't wonder if prices advanced a little," said the farmer.
"Wouldn't you?" And the stranger looked into the farmer's face with
a very innocent expression.
"It can't go much lower; if there should be any change, it will
doubtless be an improvement."
"How much wheat have you?" asked the sportsman.
"I've about a thousand bushels left."
"A thousand bushels. Ninety cents; nine hundred dollars;--I'll tell
you what, friend, since talking to you has put me into the notion of
trying my hand at a speculation on wheat, I'll just make you an
offer, which you may accept or not, just as you please. I'll give
you ninety cents cash for all you've got, one half payable now, and
the other half on delivery of the wheat at the canal, provided you
get extra force and deliver it immediately."